


And then we build up the courage to get dinner

by emotionalsupportfastcars



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Formula 2 RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Ferrari - Freeform, Fluff, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Growing Old Together, Heartwarming, Humor, M/M, Red Bull Junior Team, Retirement, Slice of Life, Snark, The Annual 'Fuck Red Bull' Gathering, ferrari driver academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29732211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalsupportfastcars/pseuds/emotionalsupportfastcars
Summary: Marcus’ stomach is starting to feel empty. It’s a sign. A sign that they should start thinking of... dinner. Yeah. That.“Callum?” he mumbles.It is 2041. Although Formula 1 drivers Marcus Armstrong and Callum Ilott have retired from racing, they still meet up with their motorsport friends, follow the latest motorsport news, and reminisce about their careers. It goes without saying that their dinner routine remains the same.Or: The completely self-indulgent future fic that fell out of me thanks to the following Marcus and Callum quote: “We just exist … from the hours of 5pm till dinnertime … and then we build up the courage to get dinner.”Features cameos from Ferrari Driver Academy members and from the 2020 F1 grid.
Relationships: Alexander Albon/George Russell, Marcus Armstrong/Callum Ilott, Mick Schumacher/Robert Shwartzman, Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	And then we build up the courage to get dinner

Marcus’ stomach is starting to feel empty. It’s a sign. A sign that they should start thinking of... dinner. Yeah. That.

“Callum?” he mumbles.

Okay. Marcus can barely hear himself. Not good. 

“Callum?” he repeats, in a louder and clearer voice.

Callum takes a moment to even react to Marcus’ question. Like Marcus, Callum is also caught in the same silent, lazy haze of post-5pm existence. 

Finally, Callum replies. “Hmm?”

“Dinner?”

Callum’s mouth opens on a big, slow yawn. As Callum’s mouth closes, Marcus can almost see Callum’s braincells switching themselves on one by one. Slowly.

“Hm.” Callum slowly comes to life and pats his stomach. “It’s a bit...”

Callum frowns, clearly trying to think.

“Yeah,” says Callum, eventually. “Let’s get dinner. What do you want?”

Marcus has no idea. He just knows that at some point, they should work up the courage to get dinner. Preferably sooner rather than later.

“No particular cravings,” he replies.

Callum nods. He remains sprawled all over one side of the sofa.

Then, with a sigh, Callum rubs his eyes, drags himself to his feet, and heads towards the kitchen with slow, lethargic steps.

Marcus remains sprawled over the other side of the sofa. He’s _so_ not moving.

It’s been just over twenty years since Marcus and Callum lived together in the Maranello house that they rented as teenagers. And yet, despite all the time that has passed, Marcus’ cooking skills haven’t really improved.

Of course, if Marcus _has_ to, he can cook. He even did it for several scattered years here and there when he was living alone. But for many years now... 

For many years now, the extent of his cooking has been… boil some water to make tea, chop a couple of vegetables, and press random buttons on a microwave.

Marcus is fully aware that his cooking skills are pathetic. But at this point, it’s not like it will ever matter. Callum cooks and Marcus does the dishes. That’s just how it is.

Every week or so, they go to the farmer’s market and the supermarket and team up in an attempt to figure out what groceries they should buy. They usually end up with a few extra treats as well. Just because, now that they’re no longer on extremely strict racing driver diets.

  


* * *

  


Some time later, Marcus hears his own name. He glances up.

Callum’s leaning against the door.

“We’ve got half a pot of leftover bolognese and some vegetables that we should probably eat sooner rather than later,” says Callum. “So... spaghetti bolognese with random extra veg? You ok with that?”

Marcus gives Callum a lazy thumbs-up.

“Cool. Give me about half an hour.”

Callum disappears back into the kitchen.

Marcus sets an alarm for half an hour.

He then sinks back into the sofa and clicks to another television channel before disappearing back into his haze of mindlessly doing... 

Nothing.

  


* * *

  


Some loud annoying sound jolts Marcus out of his lazy, lazy haze.

He scrabbles around for the source of the sound and ends up staring at his phone blankly, trying to come up with a reason for why his phone is ringing.

He turns over his phone to look at its screen.

‘Dinnertime. Set the table,’ says the note on his alarm.

Ah. Right. Dinner. Callum is cooking.

It’s Marcus’ turn to slowly drag himself to his feet and head towards the kitchen. As he gets closer, he smells tomatoes and beef.

Yum.

Callum doesn’t look up when Marcus enters the kitchen. He’s concentrating on stirring a giant pot of delicious-smelling sauce. 

As Marcus watches, Callum lifts up the wooden ladle and blows on it. Then, Callum’s tongue darts out to taste the sauce on the ladle and his face scrunches up in concentration. Finally, Callum nods to himself in satisfaction and returns to stirring the sauce.

He’s wearing one of those aprons that Marcus bought for him from some website on a whim. 

Marcus has no idea how he found that website. All he remembers is that when he clicked around the website for fun, he discovered that customers could customise their aprons with an image. And so he fired up Photoshop, dug through old photos, and made a collage of Callum’s various dogs over the years. 

Starting with Poppy.

Marcus grabs some dishes and cutlery and begins to set the table. Once he’s done, he hovers by Callum, ready to help carry out the food.

“Here,” says Callum, pointing towards a pot of already-drained spaghetti.

Marcus grabs the pot and shakes it for the small amusement of seeing the spaghetti jump up a little. Then, he carries the pot to the dining table and promptly divvies up the spaghetti between two plates.

Whatever doesn’t fit on either of their plates remains in the pot, which Marcus covers and sets on a trivet in order to avoid burning the dining table. They’ll definitely finish the spaghetti. Somehow.

Marcus wanders back into the kitchen and finds Callum pottering away at the sink.

The stove is turned off, so the sauce is clearly done. Marcus leans in to take a peek. Ground beef and vegetables swim in a sea of tomato-based sauce.

The sauce also smells _fucking delicious_.

Satisfied, Marcus carefully carries this pot out to the dining room and ladles out a generous helping of sauce for both plates. 

Then, he sits and waits.

Eventually, Callum appears and seats himself on the chair opposite Marcus.

Callum begins eating, and Marcus does the same.

For a while, all is silent.

They usually start out by eating in silence. Then, as the food begins entering their stomachs, they slowly come back to life the way wilted plants rehydrate after they’ve been sprayed with water.

“Have you heard the latest Ferrari gossip?” asks Callum, in between mouthfuls of spaghetti.

“No.“ Marcus sits up a little straighter in anticipation. “Tell me.”

Callum grins. “Oh,” he says, twirling spaghetti around his fork. “You’re gonna _love_ this. So there’s all that internal drama over who’s going to become the permanent team principal, right? Since it’s just been a bunch of interim team principals for the past few years.”

“Mmm.”

“Well, according to Mick...”

“Wait,” Marcus frowns. “How does Mick know anything? He’s just an ambassador who shows up to Ferrari events and takes photos with sponsors. _Robert’s_ the one who’s stuck in that power struggle.”

Callum looks confused. “You _do_ remember that the only reason Mick works for Ferrari is because he wanted to try digging up information to help Robert survive that internal war, right?”

“Oh.” Now that Callum says it, Marcus does remember.

It happened just over a year ago, when Callum and Marcus were having one of their quarterly dinners with a bunch of drivers who had been part of Ferrari’s driver academy.

Mick arrived half an hour late, which was very unlike him. And when he finally arrived, Mick apologised profusely before ranting that while it had only been 2 months since Rob had started working for Ferrari as a staff member, Ferrari politics had already gobbled him up and he never came home at a sane hour. And on weekends, Rob was tired and grouchy, and Mick didn’t know how what to do.

“Why don’t you get a job at Ferrari?” asked Gianluca.

“Me?” Mick frowned. “The only thing I can do at Ferrari is race, and I’m obviously retired.”

“I disagree,” said Arthur, lazily. “You’re not just a former Ferrari driver. You’re also the son of Ferrari’s greatest ever driver — Michael Schumacher. Call them up tomorrow. Even if you’re not qualified for anything, they’ll create a job just for you. I _guarantee_ it.”

The very next day, Mick owed 200 Euros to Arthur and 100 Euros to every single person who was at that dinner table. Because, just as Arthur predicted, it turned out that when you were _Mick Schumacher_ , getting a job at Ferrari was trivial.

Even if that job was a part-time job that was clearly cobbled together in a rush. 

The moment Ferrari officially announced Mick as their ambassador, Arthur insisted that Mick show them his contract. And over yet another dinner, this time at Mick and Rob’s home for the sake of privacy, the group read the contract. They then collectively agreed that they had never seen such a shoddy-looking Ferrari contract, which meant that Ferrari was really desperate to get Mick to work with them in some official capacity. 

After all, everyone at that table had been part of Ferrari’s Driver Academy. Some of them had even managed the jump to Ferrari’s actual Formula 1 team. So if anyone knew anything about Ferrari contracts, it was them.

“Right,” says Marcus. “Mick Schumacher, Ferrari spy. Pity his name’s not Ilott. Otherwise, he could be Mick Spylott.”

“That’s _my_ gamer tag,” retorts Callum. “Anyway, back to what I was saying. According to Mick…” 

And just like that, they’re snarking about Ferrari — the team whose academy they were both part of years ago. And soon enough, they’re busy snarking about everything and anything under the sun.

As usual.

  


* * *

  


They return to the sofa after dinner, though with considerably more energy than they had earlier that evening.

Marcus manages to find a replay of a rugby match, which pleases him. The fact that it is New Zealand versus England makes it extra amusing. After all, Marcus is from New Zealand and Callum is from England. 

And while Marcus is the only one in the entire house who cares about rugby, he finds that watching these matches feel like a proxy for him and Callum competing over something.

The New Zealand rugby team is commonly known as the All Blacks, and Marcus smirks at the sight of his fellow countrymen absolutely _killing it_ on the field. 

At this point, England are trying and failing to avoid a complete trashing.

Marcus _loves_ it.

So for the next half hour, Marcus alternates between smugly watching the All Blacks dominate at rugby and curiously watching Callum text someone. There’s a giant grin on Callum’s face.

Marcus doesn’t bother asking what Callum’s grinning at. If it’s relevant, Callum will tell him. Otherwise, Callum’s just up to his usual bullshit, and Marcus sees enough of _that_ on a daily basis.

“Marc.”

“Yeah?”

Callum waves his phone at Marcus. “Pierre’s been texting me about our annual ‘fuck Red Bull’ gathering,” he says. “It’s going to be at his and Charles’ this year.”

Marcus perks up.

Various groups of drivers get together every now and then. Not everyone manages to attend all the time, of course, thanks to everyone living in different countries and having various jobs and commitments. However, these gatherings tend to take place around the same time every year. The exact dates are also agreed upon at least a few months in advance. Thanks to that, everyone usually has more than enough time to make travel plans. Generally, at any given gathering, at least 80% of the group is in attendance.

More importantly, advance planning gives everyone plenty of time to whip themselves into a frenzy of snarky anticipation by texting various group chats to remind everyone about old jokes and even older rivalries over just about anything and everything. Of course, at some point, embarrassing photos will once again get sent around. The moment that happens, the chat will devolve into a cesspool of capslock and emoji spam.

Somewhere along the way, Pierre decided to give some of those gatherings a name. 

This particular group contains a bunch of drivers who’ve been affiliated with Red Bull in some sort of way. Several years ago, over a round of stupidly expensive champagne in somebody’s fancy house, Pierre lifted his glass and christened it the ‘fuck Red Bull’ gathering.

Marcus, who’s never been affiliated to Red Bull, had zero opinions. However, more half of the group enthusiastically agreed, and the name stuck.

“You know what I find amusing?” says Marcus. “Pierre named it, didn’t he? And he was a Red Bull junior. But the drivers who were the most enthusiastic about the name have never been affiliated with Red Bull.”

Callum bursts into laughter.

“Well,” says Callum, once he’s calmed down. “Outrage on behalf of loved ones is a powerful force. Friends, family, girlfriends, boyfriends, whatever.”

“When you didn’t get that 2021 F1 seat…” Marcus smiles a little at the memory, even though it is a bittersweet one. “The collective outrage of the fans, the F1 paddock, and a good part of the feeder series’ paddocks could’ve powered Ferrari’s entire factory for _days_.”

“It was nice,” admits Callum. “The fact that so many people cared.”

“You did get your seat in the end, anyway. And then everyone concentrated their energies on spamming you with congratulatory messages.”

Callum grins in reply.

“Well.” An idea occurs to Marcus. “Since we’re on the topic, let’s try to count everyone who’s in that club. The club of ‘drivers that Red Bull decided weren’t good enough.’” 

Callum laughs again. “Let’s do it.”

Marcus begins counting off on his fingers, trying to remember everyone. “Red Bull dropped you as a junior. Dropped Alex as a junior, somehow got him back, promoted him to Red Bull in that mid-season seat swap with Pierre, then demoted him to reserve and test driver at the end of the following season.”

Marcus hears a sigh and looks up. He sees Callum wince and is about to stop — no point in dredging up old wounds. However, Callum waves a hand at him. “Reflex action, don’t worry. It’s in the past. Go on.”

Marcus nods.

“Pierre, obviously,” continues Marcus. “At least _he_ won a championship, though not with a Red Bull team.” Marcus frowns at his fingers. Three.

“Brendon Hartley,” prompts Callum.

“Ah. Brendon, my fellow countryman,” sighs Marcus. “One year in that Toro Rosso was all he got. And of course, the saga of Daniil Kvyat. Also, Daniel Ricciardo escaped to Renault once he saw the writing on the wall.” At this point, Marcus is on his second hand.

“Six,” says Marcus, after checking his fingers. Who else?”

“Well, don’t forget the ones who came after,” reminds Callum. “Yuki, Juri, Liam, Jehan...”

Marcus frowns down at his hands. He’s on ten. If Callum remembers anyone else, Marcus is going to need a third hand.

“Speaking of outrage on behalf of others...” muses Callum. “Remember the way Lando yelled ‘hear hear’ the moment Pierre suggested the name?”

“He was vibrating with outrage,” recalls Marcus.

“Yeah. You could see the exact moment Lando realised that all his Red Bull-affiliated friends had been fucked over by Red Bull in _some_ way.”

Marcus smiles in amusement at the memory. “Yeah — Lando’s really close to Alex, George, and Max, and he’s friends with Pierre. He thought that Max would escape, didn’t he? Being the ‘chosen one’ and their first championship winner since Sebastian Vettel and all that.”

“No one escapes the Red Bull meat grinder,” concludes Callum, lips now curled up in a lazy smirk. “You either live long enough to give them the championship they’ve desperately wanted for years, only to be discarded in favour of the next hotshot young driver the moment your results wobble, or you are... discarded as a hotshot young driver the moment your results wobble.”

Well. Marcus is certainly not going to argue with _that_.

“It is effective, though, I’ll admit,” says Callum, ruefully. “For years, at least a third of the F1 grid consisted of Red Bull or former Red Bull drivers. And some of them ended up winning championships as well, though not all of them won with a Red Bull team.”

“Going back to Max…” Marcus steers the conversation away from less fun things and back to things that they can collectively snark about.

Callum raises an eyebrow.

“The tale of Max Emilian Verstappen versus Red Bull,” intones Marcus, in a deadpan voice. “Wasn’t _that_ a saga for the ages.”

It’s been over ten years since that entire drawn-out cold war happened. And yet, the current Formula 1 paddock still talks about it. 

“Eleven drivers, then,” says Callum.

Marcus looks down at his hands. He does need a third hand. 

Since he’s out of hands and fingers. Marcus decides to stop counting.

“Well,” says Marcus, going back to the original topic. “I can’t wait to visit Pierre and Charles’ place again. They’ve got a ridiculous number of computers and gaming consoles. Plus two professional-level driving simulators.”

“The perks of being multi-millionaires who own a fancy villa on the French Riviera with shittons of room,” replies Callum, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Anyway, we all know why they have so much gaming stuff.”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Because they’re idiots who accidentally got together during their very first Formula 1 pre-season after play-fighting over Mario Kart. They’re also sappy as fuck. So in order to honour the absolutely _ridiculous_ way their relationship started, they’ve got a shitton of gaming stuff and a giant gaming room. And since their house is so big, they’ve got quite a few rooms that can easily be turned into temporary gaming rooms.”

Marcus pauses to once again roll his eyes at that pair of married sappy idiots before speaking again. “Oh, and they definitely still compete over everything and anything.”

“That’s not unique to them,” points out Callum. “Everyone we know is still a competitive bastard and an extremely sore loser. Including both of us.”

“True.”

“Just you wait,” says Callum, smirking. “The moment someone gets out one of those gaming things and starts playing something, everyone will pile in and start making bets, taking sides, and screaming at each other. iRacing, Mario Kart, FIFA, Call of Duty, all those virtual reality games…”

Marcus breaks into a lazy, lazy grin. “As for me, I’ll either observe the chaos from afar, or be right in the middle of it swearing at everyone while trying to overtake them.”

“Ah yes, the legendary Marcus Armstrong.” Callum’s tone takes on a documentary sort of quality. “He prefers to just exist. Unless he’s competing against someone and swearing up an absolute storm. We all remember your virtual Grand Prix streams.”

Marcus shows Callum a lazy middle finger, but he’s too lazy to argue back. Especially since Callum’s said the truth and nothing but the truth. Even if Callum’s totally making fun of him.

Callum lapses back into silence, and Marcus thinks about the place that they’ll be visiting in a few months’ time.

The Gasly-Leclerc home is ridiculously pretty and elegant. It’s got a giant pool that everyone eventually gets pushed into, well-kept gardens, and sweeping staircases. Every time Marcus visits, he’s reminded of some fairytale place that he usually only sees in photoshoots. 

The house has a fancy as fuck grand piano, a drum set, and a couple of guitars. For whatever reason, learning a musical instrument seems to be a common hobby for racing drivers. Quite a few of them have also become semi-decent musicians. This usually means that some form of live musical entertainment ends up happening.

Having said that, no one seems to have taken any singing lessons. So the less said about everyone’s horrendously off-key singing, the better.

A thought occurs to Marcus.

“It’s a pity that Pierre and Charles don’t have pets,” he says. “I’d pay good money to see you chase one of Alex’s dogs through their place the way you did at Alex and George’s last year. Which, if you remember, I filmed.”

“And stuck it up on Instagram that night while I was asleep, fuck you.” Callum moves over to kick Marcus, who once again shows him the middle finger.

“I’ve still got that video of you chasing Richard the chicken at that Maranello apartment we first shared,” reminds Marcus. He senses the beginnings of a prank. “Hey. I could make a compilation video of your animal-chasing exploits and stream it to one of Pierre and Charles’ giant flat-screen TVs. There are at _least_ five people at that gathering who would appreciate my work.”

“ _Marcus_. Don’t you _dare_.”

Marcus ignores Callum’s completely ineffective threats. He sits up straight and adopts the sort of voice that one hears in a documentary. Revenge for Callum’s earlier jokes at his expense. 

“And here we are, ladies and gentlemen,” intones Marcus. “More than twenty years later, Callum Benjamin Ilott still runs around shirtless, fruitlessly attempting to catch the local wildlife.”

Once again, Callum kicks Marcus. 

Marcus smirks at Callum and files away that prank for later.

Callum goes back to his phone, clearly having decided that it’s best not to argue with Marcus.

Smart man.

Though now that Marcus has been reminded about Alex and George’s place…

Alex and George live in a semi-rural area, and they’ve got a large and rambling backyard that’s full of trees, wildflowers, and grass. 

It’s the perfect place for Alex’s cats and dogs, all of whom really enjoy the open space.

Seeing so many animals wandering around contentedly always reminds Marcus of the sheep that dot New Zealand’s land. And although he left Christchurch more than two decades ago to pursue his dream of driving in Formula 1, he still goes back for at least a month every year, and it will always have a place in his heart.

The other thing about Alex and George’s backyard is that it is large enough to entice wild animals to pop by. So if Marcus stays still for some time, he’ll be rewarded with the sight of random rabbits scampering through the taller grass near the fences, flocks of birds flying overhead, and a couple of regularly impudent squirrels who are busy eyeing the uncovered food of some forgetful soul.

And well, whenever anyone runs on the grass with Alex’s dogs, intent on chasing and playing with the excited pets, Marcus will grin lazily and think of the time a shirtless Callum, then the leader of the 2020 Formula 2 Championship, yelled and chased Richard the chicken through the backyard of their shared Maranello house while Marcus laughed and laughed and refused to help. 

Instead, he filmed Callum and stuck it up on Instagram for the laughs.

Just as he did last year at Alex and George’s place.

It goes without saying that Marcus has always loved embarrassing the shit out of Callum. After all, it’s really not Marcus’ fault that Callum makes it so _easy_ , what with all the shit that Callum _still_ gets himself into.

Marcus glances over at Callum.

Callum is back on his phone, texting away with a giant grin on his face. This time, he doesn’t tell Marcus who he’s texting and once again, Marcus can’t be bothered to find out the details. Callum’s _definitely_ back on his bullshit, and that’s all Marcus needs to know.

Some things never change.

  


* * *

  


A few lazy lazy hours later, Marcus and Callum haul themselves up from the sofa, only to drop themselves onto the bed where they’re most definitely staying until tomorrow morning.

Marcus settles into bed next to Callum. They’re both in their forties now. And while they still have decent fitness regimes, neither of them can escape the natural passing of time.

To be fair, Marcus’ knees have never been the same since he woke up one morning, impulsively decided to run a half-marathon because he felt that he had _way_ too much energy, started feeling some pain in his knees with 3 kilometres to go and... carried on running through the pain. Because he was almost at the finish line.

Since then, he hasn’t been able to run for more than 3 kilometres at once. The poetic poetic irony.

Marcus eyes his knees. They tend to ache the moment the weather gets a little chilly. Signs that they’re _definitely_ still unimpressed with his teenage antics.

And while Callum doesn’t have any major injuries to speak of, years of racing cars and being involved in the occasional high-speed spin or crash have taken their toll.

In the winter, Callum’s shoulders occasionally decide to annoy him. Marcus will attempt to soothe those shoulders with regular massages.

It’s okay, really. Their niggling injuries are proof of a life well-lived, of dreams chased, of treasured memories.

Although not all of their dreams came true, many of their dreams _did_ , even those that they thought might never happen. Such is the rarified world of motorsport.

“You okay?” asks Callum, from his spot on the left side of the bed.

Marcus frowns. ”Yeah,” he says. “Why not?”

“You’re unusually quiet,” replies Callum. “Even by your standards.” He rolls onto his stomach and props his head up on his hands, eyes carefully observing Marcus.

Oh.

“Just got lost in thought, I suppose,” says Marcus.

At that, Callum laughs. “Still Mr I-prefer-to-just-exist Armstrong, hmm?”

Marcus grins lazily at Callum.

“Yep.”

Callum rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond look on his face.

“Goodnight,” says Callum, smiling at Marcus before rolling back onto his back. He closes his eyes, tugs the duvet up over his chest, and settles in.

Marcus’ grin morphs into a softer, quieter smile. He leans over to turn off the light before rolling onto his side, his fingers feeling around until they brush against Callum’s.

“Goodnight,” he echoes. 

Callum makes an indistinct sound.

Marcus withdraws his hand and flops onto his back. The rings on his left hand clink together.

The ring on his third finger is a fitness ring that they all still wear — the latest version of the fitness rings they used to wear and use during their Ferrari Driver Academy days.

The ring on his fourth finger… 

Callum chose that one.

“Love you,” breathes Marcus, in so soft a voice that he doubts Callum can hear it, even though Callum is right next to him.

Callum doesn’t react, and Marcus doesn’t mind.

It’s okay if Callum doesn’t hear this one.

Unlike Callum, Marcus isn’t one for verbal declarations. 

Marcus doesn’t like to talk that much, really. Unless he’s competing over something. In that case, he’s _definitely_ talking nonstop and swearing up a storm.

Instead, he prefers doing dumb shit to make Callum smile.

And he knows — knows from the way that Callum’s eyes still light up whenever Marcus surprises him with some dumb affectionate gesture like those aprons covered with photos of Callum’s dogs, and from the way Callum still ducks his head whenever Marcus texts him some joke or meme that somehow manages to be both extremely snarky and somewhat sappy… he knows that Callum knows all of this.

This, and so much more. 

‘Love you,’ thinks Marcus, and falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Marcus and Callum References**  
>  \- Callum and Marcus used to live together. They've mentioned it in interviews.  
> \- Marcus’ Instastory of [Callum chasing Richard the chicken.](https://whatdidwejustdo.tumblr.com/post/639205863895203840)  
> \- Marcus’ half-marathon story is on FDA’s Insta. 24 questions. 19 Dec 2020.  
> \- Title from what Marcus and Callum said in [Chasing the Dream](https://whatdidwejustdo.tumblr.com/post/641939117519912960/domestic-boyfriends). Subtitled version on F2’s Insta.  
> \- F1’s [official compilation](https://whatdidwejustdo.tumblr.com/post/643224872743501824) of Marcus swearing on Arthur’s virtual GP stream. The [full compilation](https://whatdidwejustdo.tumblr.com/post/642211408301441024/maxfewtrell-marcus-armstrong-on-arthur-leclercs) of Marcus never shutting up on Arthur’s stream.  
> \- “I prefer to just exist” - daeriann’s 17 Sep 2020 YouTube clip of Marcus on Callum’s Twitch stream  
> \- Marcus is from New Zealand and rugby is one of its most popular sports. The national team is called the All Blacks and is wildly successful.  
> \- Marcus wears a chunky ring on his [third finger](https://whatdidwejustdo.tumblr.com/post/643921501283811328). Many drivers wear a similar ring.  
> \- Callum has used Spylott or Spylotty on his gaming streams. Still looking for the relevant Tumblr posts.
> 
>  **Other Notes**  
>  \- The Pierre/Charles in this are the future versions of the Pierre/Charles in my [‘Études’ series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065098), which is why they get together the same way in both this fic and in that series. Still deciding whether to include this fic in that series.  
> \- I purposely kept the details of ’who won what’ and ‘how their careers turned out’ vague so that you can easily imagine that your favourite driver(s) had their dream career.
> 
> Anxious because this is my first completed Marcus/Callum fic. Thank you for reading. As usual, comments and kudos make my day. <3 Tumblr: @whatdidwejustdo.


End file.
